LIAM
Mother's apartment on the Upper East Side had always felt like a museum.
Everything positioned correctly.
Everything tasteful.
Everything was arranged by a woman who had spent forty years perfecting the appearance of a life rather than living one.
I had grown up in rooms like this and never really noticed until lately.
She opened the door before I knocked. She had been watching for the car.
"Liam." She stepped back to let me in.
She looked tired. Not the surface tiredness of a long week, something underneath.
My mother's moods were her own business and I had not come here for that.
"You look well," I said.
"Sit down."
She poured wine without asking if I wanted any.
That was the first thing.
Margaret Carter did not pour wine at three in the afternoon. She barely dran
